The Guests on South Battery (Tradd Street #5)(78)
“That’s very nice, thank you,” I said, and watched with fascination as she crossed something off one of her lists.
“What was that?” I asked, always interested in other people’s methods of organization.
“Every day on my to-do list, I write ‘Do something nice for somebody.’ So thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said slowly.
“They’ve just been fed and diapered, so they should be good to go,” Jack said. “They love to be sung to and they’re not too particular. Unless you’re Mellie—that usually makes them cry.”
I sent him a withering glance, but he just smiled back at me because he knew I couldn’t argue.
“Will do,” she said, coming around the desk and leaning over the stroller. Sarah immediately reached for her sparkling dragonfly earrings, and JJ reached for her breasts. I quickly diverted their attention by diving into the little toy pouch snapped to the stroller and pulling out two stuffed animals before handing one to each child. “Call us if you need anything, but they’re pretty easygoing.”
“Don’t you worry. I love babies.”
Judging by the hours I’d already spent while she showed me pictures of her grandchildren on her phone, I figured she had lots of practice.
Jack followed me back to my office and pressed me against the door as soon as I’d closed it. “Too bad we only have fifteen minutes.”
I pushed away from him, too aware that Jolly and our children were only a short hallway away—not to mention any coworkers who might be returning from lunch. “That’s what our bed at home is for.”
“Is it? Well, just for the record, I intend to keep our marriage spicy. So expect it when you least expect it.”
I felt my body flush and wondered if I might be having a hot flash. I extricated myself from his embrace and headed to my desk, where I shed my coat, purse, and briefcase. “So, what did you want to show me?”
“Is that a leading question?”
I sighed. “No, it’s a real question.” I pointed to his leather satchel he wore over one shoulder. It was vegan leather and stamped with a bright green peace sign, and looked just like the one Sophie’s husband, Chad, wore when he was on his bike pedaling to class. It had actually been a wedding gift from the couple—I had a matching one that I hadn’t quite found a way to use yet.
Jack lifted it from his shoulder and pulled out a thick ream of paper before slapping it in the middle of my completely bare desk. It was a point of pride that I wouldn’t leave the office without all papers, pens, and pencils being put in their proper spots. Only frames containing photos of Jack, Nola, and the babies were allowed.
“What is that?” I asked, wincing at the uneven edges of the stack of paper.
“Hasell’s medical records. Took up half a file cabinet.”
“Those are the actual records?”
“Yes. Lucky for us, Hasell’s multiple hospital visits were pre–HIPAA regulations, so her family’s private doctor kept all her records in his office, and when he retired he moved them to the attic of his house. Just as we thought, he passed away a few years ago, but his elderly widow still lives in there. She said I could borrow them. Took some convincing, but she eventually caved.” He smiled brightly, and I could only imagine what the poor woman endured in terms of endless charm and flattery. He continued. “I’ll probably pull an all-nighter tonight taking notes because I have to return them tomorrow. I’ve already had a chance to go through them, and it’s pretty perplexing.”
We both sat down on either side of my desk as he began to flip through the pages. “The records begin when Hasell was only three months old. She got pneumonia and was responding well to antibiotics and was sent home, but then came back with antibiotic-resistant pneumonia and bronchitis. She stopped breathing several times while at the hospital, but was revived because her mother was there and administered CPR.”
He turned a page so I could read. “This is a note from a nurse, commenting on how Anna, her mother, refused to leave the girl’s side and slept on a cot by her incubator for five months until Hasell could go home.”
I thought of my rosy-cheeked babies, full of good health and smiles, and despite what I suspected Anna had done to us in the attic, I felt a stab of sympathy for her. “Did she get better after that?”
Jack replaced the page in the stack and shook his head. “No. Things got worse. She had recurring bouts of respiratory issues, but she also developed problems with her digestion. Couldn’t keep solids down until she was about five years old. Her mother had to feed her with a feeding tube. One of the doctors noted it was the worst case of gastroesophageal reflux disease he’d ever seen in a patient. She was so weak she didn’t learn to walk until she was three and even then could walk only short distances without tiring out. By the time she died, she was bedridden.”
I tried not to think of the room with the beautiful mural and snow globes and of the girl who’d once planned to travel the world but never made it past her bedroom door. “But they don’t know what she died from specifically?”
“According to her death certificate, no. But I talked to one of my doctor friends who said that her body just gave out, that her organs simply shut down one by one. Her brain would have been the last organ to go, so she would have been aware that she was dying.”